


Addiction

by Blue_Velvet_Dark



Series: Dope [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Cocaine, College, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, HIV/AIDS, Heroin, Manipulation, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s), Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Tension, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:16:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blue_Velvet_Dark/pseuds/Blue_Velvet_Dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock needs his fix, but he might have gotten more than just cocaine.</p><p>Heavily features drug use involving cocaine and heroin, and later on will feature emotional/psychological manipulation, mental health issues, suicide, sexual tension, HIV, and overdoses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cut

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to Blue_Jay, who is definitely my source of infinite inspiration, despite the sensitive topics I write about. bffs 4lyf.  
> Please contact me at taphophiles.tumblr.com if you have an suggestions, prompts, or concerns.

A young Sherlock Holmes pulled up the collar on jacket against the terrible cold winds of late November. From the university, it was a near unbearable twenty minute walk to the house his dealer operated. There were two other places to get his fix that were a much shorter walk, but he felt safest here, both from authorities and from tainted drugs. It was a semi-detached home with a well-kept garden, owned by a young, attractive couple. They were model citizens, holding well-paying, upper-middle class jobs. As far as the neighbors knew, they enjoyed baking, reading the paper, and not being drug dealers.

  
But when Sherlock knocked, he did so in a slight variation of the well-known “shave and a haircut“ pattern. There seemed to be no response, but he waited and eventually could hear locks slowly being undone. The door opened and the husband, Robert, let him in with a grin and a “hello, Sherlock”. The house looked average though well decorated, and superbly clean. The first time he showed up at the door he thought he had the wrong house. Even Sherlock couldn’t see any signs of drug use in the home until he was brought to the basement. Once again, needing his fix, he followed Robert to the steep stairs, making ridiculous idle chat.

  
“I hear you’re graduating next year.” Robert said, as they passed through the living room.

  
“I am, but I suspect I’ll be continuing. School keeps me busy and my brother out of my business.” He stopped to examine a new painting they had put up, but continued following him after a second.

  
“Oh, yes, how is Mycroft?” Sherlock knew that Robert had no interest in Mycroft, considering that his brother would love to have him in front of a firing squad if he ever found out who, exactly, was supplying his brother with cocaine. He was just chatting, and it was horrifyingly uncomfortable.

  
“Just fine. Still trying to take over all of Britain.” Robert laughed, despite Sherlock not joking about Mycroft’s goal.

  
They descended down into the basement which was just as well furnished as upstairs, but was much more festive. The lady of the house, Diane, was seated in a highbacked plush chair across from another of their “friends,” as they called them. She was seated on the edge of the sofa casually chatting and laughing as she railed a line of cocaine on the mirror in her lap. She hardly noticed Robert and Sherlock enter the room, but Diane turned to greet him.

  
“Oh, Sherlock, lovely to see you. Do you happen to have a fag on you? Anna has been dying for one but the corner store is closed.” She said with a smile - Diane didn’t beat around the bush as much as her husband did. Anna, who was around his age or perhaps a couple years older, gave him a little wave of the hand as she rolled up a fiver and tucked her straight black hair behind her ears. He pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, took one for himself, and gave one to Anna.  
“Thank you much,” She said, setting it on the table while she snorted a line off the mirror. He sat on the opposite end of the couch, crossing his legs and lighting his cigarette.

  
“We were just discussing exams coming up. Have you been getting prepared?” Diane asked him. He would rather just make his purchase and go, but that’s not how Robert and Diane worked. They were exclusive, dealing only with people who fit very specific criteria. They had to appear like high-functioning members of society, whether or not they were, and they generally limited their service to high achieving, intelligent people. There were no stereotypical junkies coming through their doors. They used this form of exclusion to provide a number of different things that Sherlock found desirable. Safety was one; no one would ever expect that this perfectly manicured little house was a host to drug users. Quality was another. Where other dealers would cut their coke with baking soda or even talcum powder to get more volume for the money, this couple sold the purest they could get their hands on.

  
But their quality service also meant they could demand that Sherlock sit with them and talk for a few hours.

  
“No need to prepare,” Sherlock said as he breathed out a cloud of smoke. “I’ve been ready for these tests for a very long time. I only wish that they would let me take the tests at the beginning of the courses to get it over with.”

  
“I can sympathize with you on that,” Anna said as she picked up her cigarette and put it to her lips. “University is boring. But then again, so is the real world. Chemistry major?”

  
He looked at her carefully, taking a deep drag then letting it out. “Yes. And you’re a maths major. What gave me away?”  
She shrugged. “You smell like acetic acid. How about me?”

  
He took her left hand somewhat roughly, but not enough to hurt her, and turned it over in his hands. “You’re left handed, and you keep setting your hand down on top of your notes. You have several equations printed on your skin. Higher level maths, from what I can read.”

  
“Well done.” She said with a crooked smile. Sherlock took the time to look her over now, noticing each aspect of her to make appropriate deductions. Her clothes were screaming well-off, but not super rich. She most likely had an expensive education prior to coming to the university. She already had her first degree in maths, and was going for her Masters, so she was definitely older than he was. She had a scar on the back of her hand, most likely an infected injection site from some other drug, but it was healed. She hadn’t used intravenously for a year at least. Her dark red coat was ill-fitting, too loose even for the fashion of the year, be he suspected she had been much thinner and was beginning to fill out - nicely, he thought absentmindedly. She was almost certainly former heroin user.

  
Anna noticed that she was being observed and it clearly made her a bit uncomfortable. She handed him the mirror and razor blade that was in her lap, and searched in her jacket pocket. “Here, I‘ve been rude.” She placed a small baggie of soft white powder in his hand.

  
“I didn’t come here to take your cocaine.” He spat, trying to push it back on her. He didn’t understand what this gesture was supposed to mean, and it somewhat offended him. Suddenly Diane and Robert couldn’t stifle their giggles.

  
“Sherlock, I figured you would find it out on your own.” Robert said with a smirk. “She’s our supplier. When you buy from us, you buy from her.”

  
Sherlock was taken aback, his brows furrowed as he looked from the couple across from him to the young lady beside him. She pretended to be flattered by his surprise, batting her lashes and holding a hand to her lips.

  
“Technically, it’s my family’s blow, but Robert and Diane are just so sweet I handle it myself.” She closed his hand around the baggy. “A gift from me to you, or at least a rather one-sided trade, since you gave me the cigarette. Trust me, I have plenty.” She finally lit the cigarette that had been resting between her lips.

  
Sherlock still didn’t know what to think. He looked down at his ‘gift’ - not quite a gram, so he still intended on making a purchase from Robert and Diane. “Well, I thank you, Anna.” He said, trying to sound sincere. Presents were not common for him and he struggled to understand generosity, especially when so many people considered him to be annoying, rude, and a show-off. He snuffed his cigarette, took out a few pinches with his large fingers and placed them on the mirror.

  
Cocaine was, aside from being a good way for him to get the high he needed to stave off his boredom, a ritual. He clumped it together in a pile, then cut the loose chunks repeatedly, crisscrossing the cuts over and over until he was left with a fine powder. He didn’t even hear the other three in the room making conversation as he smoothed out an even line, carefully scraping it back and forth until it was straight and perfect. He used the fiver laid on the table to snort it, then threw his head back. It was very pure, with a light burn against the membranes in his nostrils. The high hit him while he was still sniffing the residue further into his head.

  
This was what he craved. His heart beat faster, his blood pressure rose, his skin flushed. He could almost feel the dopamine increasing in his brain as the warm euphoria washed over him, enough to placate his desires but not enough to throw him off his game. He was invincible, a god among them.

  
He made a pleasurable groan as he threw his arms over the back of the sofa. He sniffed a couple more times, the burning sensation a little less comfortable than the first few seconds, but he enjoyed it thoroughly.

  
“Feeling good, Sherlock?” Anna asked, Sherlock vaguely aware of the mischievous smile on her face as she watched him being drowned in feel-good hormones.

  
He nodded, looking at her through dilated pupils. “Columbia?” He asked, looking her over again. She had a slight pronunciation beneath her words, mostly drowned out by the fact that she was, definitely, raised in Britain. But her parents were not.

  
“Indeed.” She said nonchalantly, flicking the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray. “A little stereotypical, I suppose, but it‘s true that we produce a hell of a lot of coca.” With her free hand, began lightly tapping against her thigh with her middle finger. Dot dash dash. Dot dash. Dash dot. Dash. Pause. Dash. Dash dash dash. Pause. Dot dash dash dot. Dot dash dot dot. Dot dash. Dash dot dash dash.

  
He quickly responded, tapping his long index finger on the mirror. Dash dot. Dash dash dash. All the while they were sending their messages, they were both forced to carry on conversation with Robert and Diane, their very sweet but suspicious hosts.

  
The next of her messages confused him momentarily. When he translated it, it came out as “Msg mci rc,” and made no sense. When he figured it out, he couldn’t stop his mouth. “Who the hell uses a Caesar shift? Could you be a bit less obvious?”

  
“If would have taken you too long to figure out a vigenere,” She sighed.

  
“Really, are ciphers and codes the height of your maturity?” Diane growled at them, her arms crossed.

  
“Well, clearly the limit to hers,” Sherlock snorted, fingering the plastic baggie in his pocket.

  
Anna rolled her eyes, then switched the conversation. “Give me your mobile phone, Sherlock. And don‘t use the I-Don‘t-Have-One excuse, it‘s a lie. ”

  
“Why?”

  
“I need to send a text message.”

  
“Perhaps I don’t have texting. You can use your own.”

  
“That would be ridiculous, and yes you do.” Anna held out her hand, and Sherlock, annoyed but curious, handed her his cell phone. She was done in under thirty seconds, handing it back to him. Then came the ding from her pocket, which she patted. “Thanks for your number, sweetie.” She smirked.

  
Of course it would be silly to send a text to herself from her own phone, Sherlock thought, mentally rolling his eyes. But now he had her number, as well. A well enough trade, should he require her.

  
Sherlock, enjoying his high too much to care about what she did, looked to the drug-dealing couple. “I need to get home. A couple grams will do me.”

  
“Oh, leaving us so soon, Sherlock?” Diane pouted as her husband went to the safe in the corner of the room. “Please come visit us very soon, even if you don’t want to buy.”

  
“I’ll see what I can do,“ Sherlock said, an empty promise. Robert returned with a larger amount of the same white powder that was in his pocket, and Sherlock paid the nearly laughable price demanded.

  
“Do text me, Sherlock.” Anna said with a grin, sprawled out on the couch where he had just been sitting.

  
Sherlock didn’t bother replying to Anna. Instead he walked up the stairs and out of the house, back into the cold. He flipped his collar up, watched his breath cloud in front of his face, and headed home with no intention of contacting her.


	2. Ingest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna has a little puzzle for Sherlock - But in the end of it, he just unravels some of her mysteries.

Sherlock didn’t bother texting Anna, nor did he see her the next few times he went to get more coke. His mind was a  bit split on the issue, whether he was glad to be able to avoid her or whether he was a little disappointed that he couldn't get to know her more. She was rather interesting, if horrifyingly annoying.

But a little over a month later, he received a text from her. It was just her address, a smiley face, and her name, Anna Jaramillo. He didn’t bother replying, and a couple days later, she sent the same text message, this time accompanied by a “Please?”

He thought about ignoring this one, as well, but a few hours later when he had nothing to do but a short stack of homework he could do in thirty minutes, he donned his coat and went out into the Early January weather. He knew the street she had sent him, though it wasn't a place he frequented very often as it was mainly residential. Unsurprisingly, the building she lived in looked to be a fairly well-to-do-looking flat with a manicured garden. After a moment of looking around the garden, he knocked on the door and it was answered shortly by Anna, who was brushing her teeth when she opened the door. He realized now, seeing her on her feet and without her heeled boots, than she was very short, a full foot shorter than he was, and he found it somewhat funny. A short, skinny little girl who sold coke and god knows what else.

“Oh, Sherlock!” She exclaimed, clasping her hands in excitement, and he realized she was likely too short to look through the peephole on the door. That seemed dangerous, the thought off-handedly as she opened the door and scurried back to let him in. “I thought you might ignore me again.” Her eyes were red and puffy and she was a shade thinner than he had remembered her being. His mind instantly made the connection that she had been throwing up, and he assumed she was bulimic.

“I considered it.” He responded, stepping through the door into a lovely flat, bright, though it was a bit messy.

“Make yourself at home, I’ll be just a minute.” She wandered back off to the bathroom to finish brushing her teeth. Sherlock did make himself at home, but that meant snooping through everything he could without actually touching much. He checked out the living room - stacked high with books on every subject from language to maths to how to care for horses. He found himself annoyed by the underthings Anna had lying around - all clean, he was sure, but it’s still a frustrating thing. There was a personal computer sitting on the desk by the tall window, turned off but not unused.

He moved to the kitchen. The tea kettle had just been set on the stove, not yet whistling, though he suspected by it’s state that it is nearly always on. Otherwise this room was far cleaner. He notices a myriad of medications on the counter, and he picks one up and reads it. He suddenly realizes how horrifyingly wrong he was about her having bulimia, and he sets it back down and returns to the living room to sit quietly on the couch.

When she returns, wiping her wet hands on her jeans, she doesn’t have time to speak before he does.

“How long have you been HIV positive?” He said, his hands steepled under his chin in thought, not looking at her.

She suppressed a scowl, clenching her jaw tight enough to look painful. “Did you deduce that all by yourself? Good job!“ She mocked angrily. ”Four years. Would you like some tea or would you like to ask me more questions that are none of your business.”

“I’m sure I can do both.” He says with the most asshole-ish grin Anna has ever seen. She shakes her head and huffs, then walks to the kitchen to make tea. He calls out to her, “Share a needle?”

“Yes. Once.” She poured two cups of boiling water over two tea bags, and returns to the living room with them before he can ask another question. “Found out eight months later that I have HIV.” He took the tea from her, and she sat across from him in a fuzzy armchair.

“New medications, I expect?”

“Just got a new one a couple days ago. My joints are killing me and I’ve vomited up everything solid I’ve tried to eat.” She spooned in some sugar to her tea, not making eye contact with Sherlock. “I won’t try to convince you not to do intravenous drugs, because I know you will do whatever you please. But if I ever find out you shared a needle with someone I will rip your larynx out.” She threatened in probably the sweetest voice Sherlock had ever heard, and he realized that she wasn’t so much worried about his safety in particular, but for the safety of everyone as a whole.

“I don’t plan on doing so.” He said, taking two sugars with his tea. He took a sip, and decided it was satisfactory to him, despite it not being his favorite blend.

She sat back in the chair, her feet not touching the floor, and stared at him. “I didn’t ask you here to discuss my disease, Sherlock.”

“I might like to discuss it.” He said, this time just to get a rise. It didn’t work, she just rolled her eyes.

“I’m an open book.” She said sarcastically, spreading her tiny arms.

He hesitated. He didn’t want to make her mad, but at the same time he didn’t know anyone who had HIV. He had all the facts, but he knew that hearing it from someone who experienced it would be different. “I apologize, it was none of my business. But if you would, I’d like to hear what it’s like.”

She swirled her tea gently in her cup, watching him to try to detect hints of malevolence. She found none. “The disease itself doesn’t much bother me. It’s not very noticeable when I‘m on my medications, other than being more susceptible to getting sick. The rest of it sucks, though. The constant medications, changing all the time. I’m sick nonstop just from the pills I force myself to swallow on a daily basis. And people are fucking horrible when they find out I’m positive. Half of Britain thinks that they can catch it by shaking my hand or drinking after me. Then there are the people who treat you like you’re about to fall over dead and pity you constantly, while the other half curses you for your existence.” She paused, clenching her jaw again and swallowing hard. “And then there’s the whole thing where I’m going to be a virgin my entire life; no one is ever going to want to be in a relationship with a girl whose love can kill them. I can never have children, never get a tattoo, and if I go to the hospital and have blood drawn, the nurses draw straws to decide who is going to have the misfortune to expose themselves to my blood.” Her eyes closed and she tilted her head back, breathing slowly. Neither of them spoke, just sipped their tea for a time.

“So what can I do for you, Anna?” He said finally, willing to humor her.

The corners of her lips twitched and finally turned into a mischievous smile. “I’m bored, you’re smart. I don’t like stupid people, Mr. Holmes. I want to play a game with you.” She leaned forward and set her cup on the table.

“Perhaps I don’t want to play a game with you.” Sherlock said, his face unreadable.

“You will when I tell you what the game is.” She sounded sure of herself. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and waited for her to continue. “I pose to you a mystery, one that everyone has thought but no one has found out. You also get nearly no evidence. Draw the right conclusion, and you get a new mystery. That’s the thrill, constant things to explore and scratch your head over. Rewards are boring. There’s no fun in fame, only fun in the search for it.”

“I don’t solve riddles, Anna.” Sherlock spat at her, completely insulted that she was going to be vague and irritating and play these stupid games.

“Oh, Sherlock, it’s murder not a riddle.” She shook her head, disappointed in him. “I want you to figure out who murdered Princess Di.”

He furrowed his brows, thinking it over. “She was in a car crash, her driver was drunk.”

“Tsk tsk. Don’t trust the French to do a proper investigation. In fact, rule number one is don’t trust anyone’s eyes but your own.” She enunciated the last two words very carefully and slowly for emphasis.

He smiled slightly, knowing that rule all too well. He had lived by it for years, but it was funny hearing it come out of the mouth of someone else, like listening to an alien speak with a Cockney accent. “Alright,” he said, taking a drink of his tea. “I’ll do it.”

She gave him a toothy smile, and leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “I knew you would, Sherlock. Don’t disappoint me.” She reached to the table to open a metal lockbox sitting in the center, in which she had more drug paraphernalia than Sherlock owned. “Care to get high with me, Sherlock Holmes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to sweet fuck I am going to fix the GLARING TENSE ISSUES in this, but I'm too "blah" for it right now.
> 
> Have fun, and contact me at taphophiles.tumblr.com if you have any questions, comments, prompts, etc.


	3. Jump

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has learned a lot about Anna, including the fact that she is fucking insane.

Over the next several weeks, Sherlock found himself at the home of Anna Jaramillo more and more frequently. What had started out as her giving him new things to solve each time he figured out the previous one turned into a friendship. Strained as it was, between Sherlock's inability to appropriately be social and Anna's drastically changing moods, he enjoyed it. He suspected she did as well, but she at least welcomed him in. In fact, they had an unspoken agreement that when she was home, the door was open, and when she wasn't... well, he knew where the key was hidden.

Over this period, he had tried his damnedest to unravel her. He made some progress in this goal, but she was hard. She gave him some slack on his rope then coiled it in tightly, and even managed to change ropes several times. What he did learn about her was strange, and even a little addictive.

Anna was a fierce business woman. Sherlock was unsure how much money she dealt with, or how much product she successfully organized over the borders, but he was absolutely sure that she ran a tight ship. Failure didn't exist for her, and "associates" found to be less than satisfactory always "left the business to pursue alternatives". She had them killed, and he was sure of it.

Anna was cunning beyond belief. She could manipulate nearly anyone, and did so very often. He watched many of her business transactions and the second she found it going sour, she turned on the charm, or the fear, or anything she could use on that particular person. Very little got by her, and even less went unpunished.

Anna had a rage inside of her that Sherlock could not fathom. Things set her off without warning, without even the slightest build up. She was laughing in one moment, then was responding to bad news by throwing vases at the heads of armed men. They were afraid of her, of this tiny five foot woman. Sherlock was, too.

Anna was also an addict, pure and simple. He couldn't recall many times when she wasn't high, and then she was craving. She was using heroin again, and she wasn't ashamed that he knew. The marks on her arms were increasing in number, and she was beginning to use other injection sites all over her body. It was contributing to her terrifying weight loss and he knew she was going to die from this. He was counting down the days until she would overdose or die from malnutrition.

But he wasn't about to leave.

After his final test to finish his courses and secure his graduation, he headed over to Anna's house. The weather was still cold and, as always, wet and dark. The lights were off in the house, so he picked up the key from it's hiding spot in the garden and took his time getting to the door, but it was unlocked. He thought it strange in passing, but opened the door anyway and dropped his backpack at the door, as if it were home.

"Anna? Are you home?" He called, looking around the corner to the kitchen. He muttered a string of curses under his breath and turned off the stove that had been left on, the kettle dry and crackling from the heat. This didn't feel good. On his way down the hall, he checked the bathroom, the spare room, and even the linen cabinet - she was small enough to hide anywhere. He came to her bedroom and let the door swing open. She was there, on her knees in the floor with her head leaned against the bed. Her eyes were fluttering open here and there but she didn't seem conscious, or at least conscious enough to speak or know he was there. The needle had fallen from her hands to the floor, so he pushed it out of the way and held her head up with his hand under her chin. "Anna, can you hear me?"

She made a groaning noise and very weakly tried to push his hand away. Her arm was bleeding rather profusely, and he knew that she would absolutely kill him if he touched her. Luckily, she had an extensive first aid kit. He told her to hang on, even though she couldn't understand, and got the kit from the bathroom. Gloves, disinfectant, cotton pads, and medical tape. Sherlock returned to her side and, with latex hands, held out her arm. He patched her up to the very best of his ability, then held her head back roughly while he looked into her eyes. Unresponsive, but it wasn't a lethal overdose. She was so small, he easily picked her up and put her in the bed on her stomach so that if she did vomit, it wouldn't kill her. But for a moment, he wondered if it would be better if it did.

Once she was secured in bed, he left the room to go sit in the lounge. The beginning stages of Anna's thesis was laying on the table, so he read it to pass the time. It wasn't dry reading, somehow, and she managed to turn this obscure piece of advanced mathematical concepts into something worth reading. He was sure that that would change once she reread it and reread it and decided she focused too much on one bit, not enough on another, or even scraped the entire thing and rewrote it in a week just to do it again.

Sometime around 7pm, the lightest thud came from her room, but before he could investigate she had flung her door open hard enough to put a dent in the wall. He thought it best at this time to just wait. Eventually she walked through, holding tight to the wall on weak knees.

"Anna, do you need anything? Perhaps you sho--"

"Shut your fucking face, Sherlock." She hissed out, voice cracking. Trying to be strong, she barely made it to the kitchen sink before sinking down, held up to the counter only by having her arms outstretched. She turned the water on and let her hands rinse beneath the cool stream for a moment before she was lifted into the air. "You put me down before I strangle you! I swear to god I will make you regret putting your hands on me!" Her voice was weak, but her body weaker, and she didn't fight it physically. He dumped her onto the couch, and her body gave out so she just laid there, attempting to get comfortable. She was asleep in a matter of minutes.

When she woke, there was water on the table, along with her favorite take-away. Sherlock was sitting opposite her in the plush chair she normally claimed for herself, reading one of her non-maths books.

"Christ on a bike, I don't want this." She said, rolling over defiantly to face the back of the couch.

"You need it." He said simply, voice deep and expressionless. "Eat. Drink. Stop trying to kill yourself."

"Wasn't trying to kill myself, trying to get high."

"By taking way more than you know your body can handle?"

"And less than I know my body can't process," She corrected, stretching out her legs. At least she was conscious and semi-alert, he thought.

"Too much is too much, Anna. Next time it will kill you." He put down the book and pushed the water towards her.

She rolled over a bit forcefully. "Good, let it kill me. I'm bored."

Sherlock couldn't place what he was feeling. His head was reeling at her. Why would she take so much? Why would she be so nonchalant about facing death, and the very real reality that it was going to happen soon? Suddenly he found himself furious, his own rage bubbling over. But he wasn't about to take it out on a sick, fragile girl who was only older than him in numerical age. He stood up abruptly, grabbed his bag, and left.

He didn't come back.

 

Graduation came and went. He had a degree in chemistry, though he'd be back to continue it next semester, he had decided. For now, though, it was time to leave the campus. Sherlock was packing his things to go home when the text came in.

I'm bored. - AJ

In anger he tossed the phone away onto the bare bed and continued to pack his things, more hurried and forceful than before. Why was he getting texts from her now, when he was just about to leave? When he was just getting over the worst of his withdrawal symptoms so that he could go home and try to be a normal man in front of his parents?

But then, an hour before his parents would be there to retrieve him and escort him home, the message sank in. She was bored, and terrible, dreadful things happened when she was bored. Men died, drugs were consumed, unhappy events happened all over Oxford, which Sherlock had come to believe were all her doing. But this was somehow worse than some lesser drug lord being offed. It wasn't an invitation to come play, or a generic statement. It was her suicide note.

He called his mother breathlessly as he ran, explaining that something had come up, he had to find a friend of an acquaintance and make sure they got an important item that had been loaned to him. It was a lie, and he assumed his mother knew, but she accepted it all the same and asked him to call her once everything had been settled and he was on his way back. Once he was off the phone, he sprinted to her house and got the door open. She wasn't there, and the metal lockbox on the table, the only bit of drug paraphernalia she kept in the house, was gone. He had to find her.

There was a path Anna walked when she got restless on cocaine. Sherlock had gone with her a time or two, and not far from the university, a bridge spanned over the river at it's widest spot. There is where he would find her, he hoped. Inside he desperately begged that he wasn't too late as he hailed a cab on the street over and gave directions. He jumped out before the cab had stopped, telling him to wait a few minutes. Night had just begun to fall, and he barely saw her with the sun directly in his eyes.

She was sitting on the railing with her back to him, and she hadn't heard him approaching. There was little foot traffic this time of day. Glancing over, he knew that it wouldn't really be easy to drown oneself here, but in some darkly comic way he thought she would be determined enough to do it. That's when she jumped

One hand caught the back of her shirt, and the other grasped her sleeve first, then managed to wrap around her thin arm. She shrieked and struggled.

"Let go! Sherlock I'm going to kill you!"

"Can't kill me if you're dead!" He grunted, pulling her back up over the railing. They toppled over onto the ground but were both back on their feet immediately. All five feet of her was in a rage, spitting the most foul vulgarities he had ever heard. Anna came at him with her fists raised, since there were no vases in sight to throw. Just wanting her to stop, just desperate for her to stop, he threw the first punch, hitting her in the jaw. She fell back limply, bleeding from her mouth. His hand was cut open, and he couldn't tell if it was just his blood on the wound.

As he picked her up, he muttered under his breath about how if he got HIV... But to be honest, even if he did, he would be okay, he wouldn't regret saving her. He pushed her into the back of the cab, briefly explained the situation to the panicked driver, and asked him to go to the hospital.

He held her against him on the ride, taking in her scent and feeling her hair beneath his fingertips. His mind was spinning, trying to wrap around what was going on. The only thing he could do, the only thing that felt natural, was to pull her in closer to him. Why did it feel right?


End file.
